Ashleigh Anpilova


The fourth part of the Amnesic Gibbs Series.

Tired of what he's having to go through, as well as curious about his 'flashbacks', Gibbs makes a decision.

An established relationship story.

Written: March 2007. Word count: 1,400.



Enough is enough.


I've had enough of it all.


I'm sick and tired of being prodded and asked questions and being made to take stupid tests, and all the rest of the crap the so-called experts have been throwing at me.


And I've told them so. Told them so today. Told them that if I get my memory back, I get my memory back.


If I don't then . . . I don't. I'll live with it. I'll start again. Which is what I'm going to have to do, because I've given up hope of it ever coming back.


It's been more than a month since I lost everything.


Lost my past.


Lost who I am.


Lost . . .


Was going to say lost Ducky, but how the hell do I know that? I don't. What I'm getting, seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting, damn it; it can't be real.


They can't be memories.


They can't be.


Duck would have told me. He's told me everything else. It's from him I have some idea of just who I am.


And to be honest, if my past is as he told it, and I've no reason to think he'd lie to me, then quite frankly I'm not sure I want to remember it. In fact from what I've come to know about Ducky over the last few weeks, he's far more likely to have made it more positive than it really was.


Four marriages.


Three divorces.


A murdered wife and daughter.


Countless affairs, including one with my then junior agent who now happens to be my boss.


Losing agents.


Active service and the hell that went with it.


Who'd want to remember all that?


Part of me hopes I never will do.


But part of me still has lingering hopes that I will remember.


Bad or not, what happened was my life, and at fifty-four to lose your life like that, well . . .


But my hope is more than just because of that. It's all tied in with Ducky and these crazy possible flashbacks. I want to know. Hell, I need to know. At least I think I do. I want to know if what I see are memories. If they are real.


Reckon they can't be true though. For two reasons:


One, as I keep saying, Ducky would have told me - wouldn't he? Surely he would have. What reason could he have for not telling me? Unless . . .


Well, there is one reason; but it doesn't fit the man I've come to know. The man I think, I'm sure, I've come to . . .


And two, if I've been married four times and screwed countless other women, how come I've slept with a man?


And there's something else I'm giving up, writing in this damn thing.


'Write it down, Mr. Gibbs. Write it all down. Everything that comes to you, write it down. By doing so it might trigger something else, and you'll start to remember. Write it down, bring it along and we'll talk about it.'


Yeah, right. Like I was going to do that.


I did write it down. Don't know why, not really. Only that it was something to cling onto; something real. God that sounds pathetic. Haven't even told Ducky just how hard it is. Just how lost I feel. Can't. Want to. But I can't. Don't know how to start.


Okay, so it's also because if I do tell him, then I just might end up telling him everything. Telling him about these damn flashbacks I've been having.


I've lied to him. Can you believe that?


The one person who makes me feel safe and secure.


The one person who knows everything about me, and apparently doesn't think I'm the bastard I think I am.


The one person who spends hours with me, both at work and at home.


The one person who's always there for me.


The one person who can reassure me.


The one person I truly trust.




I've lied to him. And I've done so more than once.


He's asked me, you see. Asked me if I'm remembered anything. If I'm getting any kind of memories.


And I always say no. Well, I don't know that they are memories, do I? So it's not really a lie, is it?


Okay, so it is.


But how the hell can I say 'Actually, Duck, I am. I'm getting what seem to be memories of you and me together. In bed. Kissing. Touching. Making love. Your hands on my body, caressing me, soothing me, stroking me, feeling me. My hands on your body, caressing you, soothing you, stroking you, feeling you. Your lips on mine, so soft, so willing. So right. My lips finding yours, meeting yours, kissing yours, tasting yours. Your lips and mouth traveling down my body, kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling. My lips and mouth traveling down your body, kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling -' Shit!


Didn't mean to write that again. That's what I mean. That's why I can't show this to anyone. Reads like an x-rated sex novel, and not a very good one at that.


Except it's not about sex.


It's about love.


And that's what makes is worse. That's what makes me even more reluctant to ask Ducky. It's one thing to ask if we're . . . Quite another to ask if we're in love.


So when he asks, I lie.


And I hate doing it.


Feel bad about doing it.


And when I do it I imagine his look changes, just for a moment, an instant. It's as if for a split second when he asks, I see hope on his face, and then I crush it.


But now I'm just projecting myself onto him - again.


So this is the last time I'll write about it.


The very last.


Going to burn this thing, just in case . . . Well, just in case something happens to me. Don't want anyone finding it. Not for my sake. Don't care what they think about me. Not sure with the past I apparently have anything could shock anybody. But I don't want anyone thinking any less of Ducky. Thinking that Ducky's . . .


But if I'm not going to let the shrinks prod me anymore, and I'm not going to write about it anymore, what the hell am I going to do?


I can't live like this.


I can't do it anymore.


I have to know.


One way or another, I have to know.


Even if . . .


Even if . . .


Even if . . .


God, it's so hard to write.


Even if it ends our friendship.


Even if he can't forgive me for asking him.


Even if he's disgusted with me for suggesting it.


Even if he walks away from me.


Don't know what I'll do then.


But what kind of friendship have we got at the moment anyway?


I'd go round to his house right now, except he's away. Has been for two days. Longest two days of my - was going to say 'life', but then that's right, isn't it? My life is just over a month old, and these last two days have been the longest.


They've let me return to work, albeit tied to my desk. The doctors thought it might help; it hasn't, not in the way they hoped. But at least it gets me out of my house that's so quiet, so empty, so mocking, so full of lost memories. And more importantly, it means I get to spend time with Ducky.


Don't think I realized just how much I'd come to rely on him over the last few weeks, until he wasn't there. That's pitiful, I know, but these last two days have been worse than any since I came out of the coma.


He's back tomorrow. So I'll go round to his house in the evening and ask him. Not sure how I'll ask. How the hell do you begin that kind of conversation?


But I have to.


I have to know.


I can't live like this any longer.


I can't live with these . . . Whatever the hell they are.


I can't.


I won't live like this any longer.


I won't live with these . . . Whatever the hell they are.


I won't.


Enough is enough.




It Has Happened Again

Memories Make Us

Can It Be?

Enough Is Enough

Now Or Never

Back In Synch



Feedback is always appreciated

Go to NCIS Gibbs/Ducky Fiction Page


Go to NCIS Index Page

Go to Home Page